


One of your hugs would be nice right now

by boopboop



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: All the cuddles, Also Baymax, Bucky's Evil Cat, Couch Cuddles, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Married Life, SO MUCH FLUFF, Sick Fic, Sleepy Cuddles, more cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-29
Updated: 2016-01-29
Packaged: 2018-05-17 02:25:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5850292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boopboop/pseuds/boopboop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve comes home from work to a pair of crying children, an angry cat and a husband who may or may not be dying of the plague.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One of your hugs would be nice right now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sortofapenny](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sortofapenny/gifts).



> So. Much. Fluff. I strained something while writing this.  
> Also kidfic! In Which Wanda and Pietro are Steve and Bucky's kids.  
> There is also a cat who hates Steve.  
> Much love and slightly delayed happy birthday kisses for thunderboltsortofapenny <3

Steve is less than a footstep over the threshold when two small bodies hit him in the midsection with the force of a speeding train. “Daddy, daddy, daddy!”

He’s used to exuberant greetings. He leaves before the twins wake up most days, and in the eyes of five-year-olds he’s gone for at least a year, possibly longer. He doesn’t like the time he spends away from them, but he never fails to feel loved when they run up to him and leap into his arms, filled with excitement at seeing him again.This time, however, they aren’t babbling with enthusiasm. Wanda is sniffling, her bottom lip extended and the tears in her eyes held at bay by dragon-besting bravery. Pietro hasn’t been able to fight his off, and he presses his face – tears streaming and nose running – into Steve’s shirt.

“Papa’s sick!” Wanda sniffs, her hair, usually fastened up in one of Bucky’s Pinterest inspired bouts of creativity, tickles Steve’s arm as she tries to wedge herself and her brother in the secure circle of his embrace.

“He’s dying!” Pietro, always the more dramatic of the two, bursts into a fresh bout of tears. With no Bucky in sight to immediately put his fears to rest, Steve lifts one child in each arm and makes a semi-controlled dash for the kitchen.

“Buck?” He calls, trying to sound like a proper responsible adult and not like he wants to start crying with his children because the idea of Bucky being sick is a sharp stab of panic to his gut. “Buck, you in here? You okay?”

Instead of an answer he get a disgruntled meow from Arnold, Bucky’s – and he’s absolutely Bucky’s because the evil little bastard hates Steve and takes great delight in showing it – ridiculously overstuffed and fluffy cat.

“Bucky?”

“I’m fine,” a croaky voice announces. “Let your daddy get through the front door before tackling him, okay?” The kids sniffle at the sound of Bucky’s voice and when he finally appears from the sunroom, he looks and sounds like he’s been dragged through a hedge backward and rolled down a particularly bumpy hill. His eyes are dull, bloodshot and ringed with hollow black circles and he stands like it hurts him to do so.

“You’re sick,” Steve announces uselessly.

“I told you so,” Pietro whispers loudly.

“I,” Bucky says after sniffing dramatically, “am not sick.”

“Are too,” Pietro says from underneath Steve’s arm.

“Who’s the papa here?” Bucky asks, his usual teasing falling flat as his voice. “If I say I’m not sick, I’m not sick.”

“He’s sick, daddy,” Wanda says quietly. “I could hear him _breathing_.” He can only assume she means the rattle in his chest whenever he takes a particularly deep breath.

“He might die!” Pietro wails again, dissolving into a fresh round of tears that brings Bucky rushing to his side in alarm.

“I’m not dying!” He says gently, stroking his hand over the little boy’s hair. He’s almost as blonde as Steve is, and his sandy hair is just as unruly. “I’m just a bit…snuffly, that’s all. Like you were last month, remember? You’re all fine now, right?” He waits for the little boy to nod his head reluctantly then summons a tired smile. Thinking about it, that’s probably where Bucky’s got whatever demonic bug he’s harboring. The twins go to school and spend a day in a festering Petri dish of disease, then come home sick. And it’s not that he is glad Bucky is sick, not at all, but he’s considerably easier to manage than a pair of unhappy, snotty five-year-olds. Most of the time, anyway.

Then he shoots Steve the most pathetic, woeful look and starts to hack up a lung. It sounds awful and if he’s been like this all day it’s no wonder the kids are worried.

“Make him better, daddy,” Wanda demands quietly. Her arms tighten around his neck until it’s hard for him to breathe. She’s always been more anxious than her brother, something she’s gotten from Steve, sadly. If Pietro is Steve’s son, Wanda is Bucky’s daughter. She’s the splitting image of him, from the soft, dark curls to the wide, sorrowful eyes. She uses them to even more effectiveness than even Bucky does, and he’s secretly dreading the day when she’s old enough and smart enough to know it.

He twists himself around until he can kiss her forehead. “Don’t worry, sweetpea,” he says, “we’ll look after your papa, won’t we?” Pietro nods seriously, his tears all but dried up now Steve has taken control of the situation. Steve sets them both down. “Right then,” they both stand upright, to attention like they sometimes see him doing at work. It makes Steve smile. When Bucky stops coughing, he chuckles, then winces at the pain in his throat. “Orders. Pietro, you need to feed Arnold, okay? Just a little handful or he’ll get even fatter and then he won’t be able to climb onto the couch.” That’s actually tempting, at least until he realizes that the cat will probably just try to climb up his leg instead. Pietro nods and scurries off to the pantry. Bucky hovers behind him, watching carefully while Steve sends Wanda off to start making a pillow fort in the sunroom.

“Or do you need to be in bed?” Steve asks, stepping forward and wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist. He uses the back of his hand to test his temperature; hot, but not dangerously so.

“I’m fine,” Bucky protests. “It’ll just be a twenty-four-hour thing. Don’t worry.”

“The kids think you’re going to die,” Steve points out mildly.

“They watch too many Disney films,” Bucky huffs. “Pietro is still half convinced the old bat next door actually is the Wicked Witch.” It’s true. They aren’t watching Bambi until they are thirty.  

“I brought you Baymax,” Wanda says quietly, returning with her favorite stuffed toy, which she holds up to Bucky with the complete faith that it will make him feel better.

Bucky’s bottom lip starts to wobble, a sure sign that he really is feeling awful, and Steve steps in before he starts to cry and the kids become convinced the world is ending.

“How about we all watch Baymax, huh? No, Pietro, don’t squeeze Arnold like that, he’ll-” but even though the little boy has both arms wrapped around the cat, Arnold doesn’t try and claw or scratch him, he just hangs there, disgruntled. It’s only Steve he’s actively out to maim. Bucky rescues the cat from their son and passes him to Steve so he can take Baymax from Wanda. Arnold promptly sinks his claws into Steve’s arm, jumps free, then stalks off into the sunroom with an air of wounded dignity.

“I hate that cat,” Steve mutters.

“It’s okay, he hates you too,” Bucky reminds him.

“Quiet. You’re sick.”

“Maybe the kids shouldn’t-“ Bucky starts, hesitating in the doorway as Steve steers him gently over to the couch. It has taken them a week to get over their bug the last time, and Steve understands Bucky’s concern, he does.

“If you’re going to give them anything, you’ll have done it already,” Steve says. “Besides, I’m pretty sure you picked it up from them. If anyone needs a hazmat suit here, it’s me – oomph!”

Bucky’s elbow is still sharp and deadly, no matter how sick he is. “Just for that I’m going to breathe in your face all night.”

Steve leans in and kisses him, sweet and soft, just a touch. Bucky grumbles in irritation, cranky and sore and letting his guard down with Steve in a way he won’t with the kids. “I’ll still love you, germs and all.”

“You’re gross,” Bucky tells him. He reaches down and picks Wanda up, settling her against his hip and letting her hold Baymax as the four of them take their spots in the sunroom. There are pillows and blankets and what looks like half the toys in Wanda’s bedroom, all within easy reach. “Your daddy is gross.” She nods seriously, in complete agreement.

Steve’s okay with that. He lets Bucky get settled and makes sure the kids don’t fuss too much, then leans down and kisses his forehead again. “I’ll get you juice.”

“Half and half-“ Bucky calls after him.

“Yes Buck,” Steve promises. Half OJ, half grapefruit, as usual.

He also gets the kids two cups of milk, and puts three cookies on a plate. He doesn’t have a sweet tooth, but they do, and a treat will make them all feel better.

By the time he returns, the tv is on and playing the intro to Big Hero 6, and Bucky is sound asleep. Both Wanda and Pietro are snuggled up against him, their eyes closed, content to be close to their papa and to make him feel better.

Steve sets the milk and cookies down, then covers them with one of the biggest, fluffiest blankets they own. Wanda blinks open her eyes and holds out her hand, waiting for Steve to join in the cuddle fest.

He takes it. There’s no more room on the couch, so he sits with his back against it instead and tucks the edges of the blanket around his shoulders. Bucky’s hand twitches at his neck, not quite tickling but just…reassuring. It’s a surprisingly comfortable position to be in, and he leans back against the couch and closes his own eyes.

None of them stay awake long enough to see Baymax on the screen, but he sits in plush form, tucked under Bucky’s arms, and watches over Steve’s family while they sleep.

 


End file.
